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Who was Cassandra?

In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well, you know what happened.

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July 11, 2009

In the distance a dog barked once, twice, paused for ten seconds,
barked again twice then repeated the whole pattern until Susan stopped
counting. Crickets sang their crickety tunes, lavender, thyme and
oranges dispensed their perfume generously and time-worn cobblestones
massaged her tired feet. Everything about this evening felt heightened,
momentous, as if she had stepped outside her usual life and seen it
from another angle.

"It's not just the booze," she said aloud.

The
party was still on at the Morrison's house. Susan could hear familiar
English voices making loud party noises in the back garden. Apparently
her absence had not been noticed or if it was, had not caused much
concern. Susan couldn't remember how long she'd been gone. It seemed a
very long time. Her car was still parked in front. No doubt George's
conversation with Mrs. teetotally bitch had progressed to a quickie
upstairs. The thought of re-entering all that stress made her feel
sick. Susan decided to walk home. Let George take the car. She wanted
to hold on to the new calm mood as long as possible.

* * *

Père
Lafitte finished his evening prayers and reached up to a shelf high
above his bed. He pulled down the book he read every night, a book he
had stolen, aged thirteen, from the public library. He was not sorry
for the theft because the book was meant for him: of this he was
certain. It was his companion, his entertainment, his inspiration: Exploits Etranges et Extraordinaires.
In these accounts - truth or fiction, no matter - of amazing,
outlandish exploits by ordinary/extraordinary people, he found a kind
of faith which religion didn't entirely supply. He turned to his
favourite story. No matter how many times he read it, each time it was
new and thrilling.

As he settled back in his
narrow bed, the heavy book propped up against his knees, Père Lafitte
heard a dog barking once, twice, pausing for ten seconds, barking again
twice then repeating the whole pattern. The priest smiled contentedly.
Every night the dog performed this ritual. Every night Marcel Lafitte
read the same book. Every morning he would say mass. Things were as
they should be.

PART SIX

"I like Lafitte. He's completely free from bullshit." Susan was talking
to herself, caressed by a warm breeze. "Rare in anybody but in a
priest, that's a bloody miracle. I should have got to know him sooner."

The way home was through the village and then twenty minutes down a
pot-holed road with a boarded-up tile factory and a couple of abandoned
farms as the only scenic attractions. When they decided to move to
France, minimal traffic was the first item on George and Susan's list.
All the picturesque places shown to them by over-excited estate agents
could only be accessed in summer if you were willing to spend hours
sitting nose to tail in traffic queues longer than those in London. So
they went off on their own, driving randomly around the country,
drinking a lot of wine and following hunches until, eventually, they
found La Rive and an unremarkable house with potential to become their
home.

Susan shivered, one of those sudden, mysterious shivers not caused by
the weather but by some inner climate change. George. She did not
believe in love at first sight and it was not love when she first laid
eyes on him. Only a certainty that all the affairs and occupations
which had crowded her life until then were merely rehearsals and that
here, at last, was the role she was meant to play. No question, no
hesitation. Whoosh! Her past was swept off the map and the future was
clear: George. She had no illusions. He was so transparent you knew
immediately that he was trouble. No matter. He was the only unambiguous
decision she had ever made. And decisive she became. Susan seduced him
slowly, trusting her instincts, ignoring all obstacles, especially
those designed by George to make her fail. " I'm not your man, " he'd
say repeatedly. But year by year, denial after denial, he grew to
depend on her. Susan was making an adequate living as a free-lance
proof-reader and typist and he had come to her recommended by a friend.
George was well-enough established among the cognoscenti but he was no
literary superstar and too disorganised to go after superstardom,
though he craved it. Susan, he discovered, was an excellent organiser
and it was foolish to keep on resisting when she was so eager to take
on the task of ensuring his immortality, as if her own life depended on
it.

* * *

By the time George got home from the party Susan was asleep. "You could
have told me you were leaving," he said, getting into bed, "I looked
all over for you."

"No you fucking didn't. You were busy entertaining Mrs. Morrison."

"Look,' George said, turning away and closing his eyes, " If you want
to go back on the booze, that's your choice, Susan. But I'm not going
down that road of paranoia with you."

July 06, 2009

Marcel Lafitte was used to silence, he craved it as others craved communication. But the insistent, demanding silence which now inhabited the room oppressed him. C'est toujours la même chose avec ces gens, he thought, le sexe, l'argent, le mécontentement.

"Alors c'est quoi?" he could not hide his irritation, "The problem? Sex? Money? Discontent with yourself?"

Susan stared at him. "The money's fine, the rest is a mess." The priest's lack of social graces was surprisingly encouraging. "I was looking out the window. My husband and yet another other woman. All these voice were chattering around me and suddenly I couldn't understand anything. Nothing real. C'etait pas vrai, you know? So I drank all the booze and walked out."

"You went looking for a nunnery."

Susan shrugged. "I was drunk. I am a drunk. A reformed one, at least until tonight. Three whole years! Trois ans j'ai pas touché la bouteille! Not even a sniff. "

"Alors, what is your next step?"

"I have no fucking idea!" She laughed. "What kind of a priest are you? You're supposed to be telling me what to do next."

"Madame, this collar does not give me wisdom. A gendarme's uniform does not make him obey the law. I have little experience of the life you speak of. And I must retire now, I have an early mass tomorrow. Do you wish me to accompany you back to your friends' house?"

Susan stood up reluctantly, disappointed, like a child being sent to bed. "No, I can manage on my own, Padre. Thank you for your hospitality." She extended a limp hand which the priest shook politely, gravely.

"If I can be of any assistance, you can always find me here or in my church. Bonne nuit, Madame."

Swaying a little, Susan walked out into the warm night, carrying her shoes. The village street was deserted, lit only by the moon.

July 02, 2009

The walls of the priest’s kitchen were stained brown and black -
tobacco brown, soot black, with a patchy patina of grease like badly
applied varnish.

“Like those old brown paintings by forgotten artists lining the walls of remote museums,” Susan said aloud, talking to herself.

Alcohol had always given her words and thoughts which she would never
have expressed when sober, even if they occured to her. The priest did
not respond, absorbed in ritual coffee preparation: the struggle to
open the rusty lid of the tin, the search for the measuring spoon,
never where it should be, the rinsing of the pan still ringed with the
morning’s grounds, the boiling of the water and finally, triumphantly,
the hot strong black grainy liquid poured into chipped, thick-rimmed
cups.

“Voilà. You take milk?” He sat down at the rough wooden table. Susan’s eyes were searching the crowded shelves above the stove.

“Vous avez brandy? Le cognac?”

“Non,” the priest lied. His one bottle of Courvoisier was safely stored
away to be eked out slowly on winter nights. He was not about to let it
disappear down this woman’s greedy gullet. Susan smiled, reading his
mind.

Père Lafitte was not at ease. Such uninhibited behaviour, such joking,
came from a world that was not his world. He smiled guardedly. “Oui, je
comprend. But the couvent, the nunnerie, you were serious?”

Susan’s face darkened. She did not want to be reminded of George or of
anything at all outside this reassuring room. She looked up at the halo
of summer insects circling the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“No. I was not serious. Well, yes, I was. But not now.” She wrapped
her hands around the hot coffee cup. “Were you born in this village,
Father?”

“Non. I was born in Toulouse. My mother became ill. I looked after her
many years. Many years. Then she died. She left me un terrain, a piece
of land, near here. I became a priest. I became the village priest. I
am sixty-three years old. Voilà. C’est tout.”

June 28, 2009

La Vie en Rosé was the title that my dear friend Natalie d'Arbeloff of Blaugustine gave to her installment of the Consequences game just recently concluded. She's decided to expand her vignette into a serialized story, and I suggested that we post them here as well, since my readership is somewhat different and because the story, with its French/English implications, seemed perfect for this space too. Plus, I'm a fan of anything this abundantly creative woman does - and, during the next three weeks of our final move from Vermont to Montreal, I'm going to be busy and unable to post as much. So, watch this space, and follow along with Natalie, her heroine Susan, and La Vie en Rosé. Part Three will appear later this week.

PART ONE

“We gulp what is here and ours and nobody’s and nothing’s” George said, handing her his glass of rosé.

That’s how he talked. She couldn’t understand him half the time but he
was a poet so she had learned not to ask for explanations. “Guard it
with your life,” he added, “I’ll be right back.”

Nothing he says ever means what it sounds like, Susan thought. 'Right
back' could mean ten minutes, three hours or even three months. She
surveyed the drinks table: two bottles of the local wine, two Perriers,
two Evians and fourteen cans of sugary fizzy kid stuff. Their hosts
were strictly teetotal and stingy to boot but the isolated expat
community never turned down an opportunity to socialise so the room was
buzzing with familiar talking heads. Through the window to the garden
Susan could see the teetotal host’s teetotally blonde wife in intimate
tête a tête with George.

Susan leaned back and tipped the wine down her throat. Three years on
the wagon and five years of compliance suddenly vanished as she poured
the remains of the first bottle into her husband's glass, drank it,
then dispensing with formalities, expertly guided the rosy stream into
her mouth straight from the neck of the second bottle .

Oblivious to the guests' shocked stares, Susan stumbled out of the
house and down the village street just as Père Lafitte was passing by.
She grabbed his arm, shouting:

"Portez-moi à une nunnery!"

------------------------------------------
PART TWO

Marcel Lafitte’s immediate impulse was to pull away from Susan’s urgent
grip but he had just been mulling over something he overheard earlier
in the day, a couple of old parishioners talking about him.

“He’s so farouche,* Père Lafitte. I always have the feeling he has to make a big effort just to say bonjour.”

“Beh! He should have joined the Trappists instead of coming here.”

Père Lafitte hesitated, then took Susan’s hand and holding it in both of his, looked steadily into her tear-smudged face.

Père Lafitte’s English is slightly better than the French of les
Anglais who have gradually moved into La Rosière in search of a
paradise which does not exist anywhere on earth. Although none of them
are church-goers, he knows them all sufficiently to engage in minimal
small talk whenever he sees them, thankfully not too often. Of course
there is the gossip, dished out by the ladies who clean the church, but
he pays no attention to it.

There is something about this Englishwoman’s tipsily desperate
determination which moves him. She is middle-aged but seems childlike,
bewildered.

“Would you like a cup of coffee pour le moment? We can talk about the nunnerie.”

“ Yes! Oh oui! Please. Thank you.”

“Come along then. I will make coffee.”

Père Lafitte moved away at his usual brisk pace, Susan stumbling on her
high heels several paces behind stopped to remove her shoes. Barefoot
on the warm cobblestones she caught up with him.

“Padre,“ she whispered, “I am a bit drunk and I should not be.”

“Bon Dieu!” he thought, “I will have to listen to drunken confessing
without the shelter of the confessional!” But when Marcel Lafitte
decides to do something he does it and in the past half hour he decided
to be more responsive to people. Père Lafitte does not like people. He
likes God who is silent and demands nothing. And he loves his land, the
ten wooded acres which his mother left him outside the village of La
Rosière.

*2. Farouche: Exhibiting withdrawn temperament and shyness coupled with an air of cranky, often sullen fey charm: "small, farouche poems illustrated with doodles, a cross between Ogden Nash and Blake"(The Free Dictionary)